Penpals are still something to write home about

There’s a ‘new man in my life’.

His name is Les and he lives in Bristol. We ‘met’ in April, and have been writing to one another since — handwritten letters, in envelopes with licked-on stamps, that take a few days to be sent from I to B (Ireland to Bristol) and back.

In each of his letters, I learn more about Les — a new chapter in his life. He has a way with description: I can visualise his end-of-terrace, three-bed Victorian house, and his long back garden, with its bluebells and heathers and roses and trees.

Les is, as he says, “88 going on 50”. I was introduced to him via my website, by his daughter, Sally, who wrote to tell me that Les had discovered ‘me’ {my book} in his doctor’s waiting room, which had a table of books for sale — I’m assuming they were secondhand and donated by patients (lovely idea: Irish doctors and dentists please take note).

Sally said Les enjoyed my book, and she asked if I’d contact him. He must be your oldest fan, she said. How could I refuse?

I was waiting on advance copies of my latest book, which was scheduled to be released, so when my box of books arrived, I sent one off to Bristol. In return, I got a six page letter of thanks, which included a potted history of my oldest fan. I learned about Les’s five years in the RAF in the 1940s, his teaching career, his six children, 18 grandchildren and 23 great-grandchildren. I wrote back and we’ve been corresponding ever since.

Chances are we will never meet. I know what he looks like, because he sent me a photo of himself and Pam, his childhood sweetheart, soulmate and wife of 63 years.

Pam died in 2011, and Les still misses her deeply, and mourns her every day.

Les is as sharp as a tack. He picked me up on a spelling mistake once, so politely I couldn’t possibly take offence. His memory is truly impressive, far better than mine. He’s knowledgeable about plants and history and music, and much more — and he has a Twitter account. No flies on Les.

I’ve only ever had one other pen-friend. I spent two years teaching English in Zimbabwe in the 1980s. When I came home, I kept in touch with Zimbabwean-born Ann, with whom I’d shared a flat. We exchanged letters for more than 20 years, until the blue airmail envelopes morphed into a ‘new message’ icon on our respective computer screens.

Not the same, not the same at all — the anticipation of the next blue envelope was gone forever. But we kept in touch until Ann died, two years ago, aged just 48. So much nicer now to remember her by pulling out one of her letters and rereading the spikey handwriting; much more evocative than scrolling through a list of perfectly-typed emails.

In 2007, I co-wrote a book for children, with my pal, Judi Curtin. We called it See If I Care, and it featured two eleven-year-olds, who become reluctant pen-friends through their teachers.

The two children eventually find the exercise rewarding, but, I suspect, if teachers tried it in reality, they’d find little enthusiasm. The instant gratification lure of modern communication has turned letter writing into a lost art.

I searched for traditional pen-friend forums and found just one: good old Ireland’s Own magazine, where you can place an ad for €7 and respond to one for €4.

The internet, not surprisingly, features several pen-friend sites, all of which charge considerably more for a charmless quota of email addresses. Maybe I’m just too old.

I got a letter last week. It arrived in a proper envelope, without a window, my name and address neatly handwritten, an English stamp stuck in the corner and postmarked Bristol. I opened the envelope and found another. Written on the front of that one was ‘double-wrapped to keep the flavour in’, and inside I found a letter full of flavour. I ask you, what’s not to like?

* Something in Common, out in paperback on Nov 1, Hachette Books Ireland.